Page 26 of A Dark Fall
Honestly, I think I forgot how much I enjoy dates. The buildup, the getting to know one another, the deciding whether you even like each other. Of course, there’s always the chance the date will be truly awful, a prolonged stumble through awkward conversation and even more awkward silences until it’s over, but tonight isn’t like that at all. Sam and I have so much in common, and I thoroughly enjoy his company. It’s easy and relaxed, and it’s why we get on so well at work. Is there a sexual attraction there? Before last Saturday night, I’d have said yes, sure. Now? Now, I don’t even know how to measure sexual attraction unless I compare it with how I felt pressed up against Jake Lawrence on Saturday night.
Could I ever be this comfortable with Jake?
The answer is immediate: Christ, no. He makes me far too edgy and hot for comfort and chat. And what would we even talk about anyway? Jake would just stare that stare at me, turquoise eyes glittering, the occasional lip bite thrown in. Then he’d do that sexy smirking thing for good measure.
I realize I’ve missed an entire three minutes of Sam describing a documentary he watched last night about the sinking of a passenger ferry while I’ve been sitting here imagining what a date with Jake would be like. Sam, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. I tell him to give me the name of the documentary and store it dutifully in my phone.
I have a couple more half-pints of cider, and Sam has a small taster of a weak-strength craft beer, and then, almost too soon, it’s 11:30 p.m. and Stuart is calling time.
“Night, Alex. Night, Sam. Was nice to meet you,” he says as he holds open the door for us and we head out into the night air.
“Thanks, Stuart. See you soon,” I say, noticing my voice is slightly too high.
As soon as the fresh air hits me, I feel the intoxication level increase. Then, rather embarrassingly, as we turn the corner onto my road, I stagger slightly, and Sam has to move closer to take my arm to steady me. I could honestly hug him for it, because falling over pissed in the middle of the street would certainly ruin the sensible image of Dr. Alex Marlowe I’ve been cultivating around here for the past three years.
“Oops, thank you for that,” I laugh as he releases his arm from my shoulders. “God, that cider is quite strong. I think three is the limit,” I say in my ridiculously high voice.Please don’t hiccup. Please don’t hiccup.
“You had four, Alex.” Sam chuckles.
“Christ, did I? Okay, then four is the limit!” I nod, and he laughs harder.
“Wow, nice car,” he remarks. “Expensive postcode you live in, Alex. Douglas paying you more than me?”
Through my drunken haze, I glance at the car parked across from my driveway at number 15. The Taylors have another of their flashy friends over. I’m still certain they’re swingers. The car itself is flashy and sleek with tinted windows, but apart from that, it looks like any other flashy car. It’s what Rob would call “a drug dealer’s car.”
“Eh, wait a minute—don’t you live in Teddington?” I exclaim, turning to Sam. “In a five-bed detached?”
“Yeah, but I inherited that, remember? I’m still a socialist at heart.” He puts a fist in the air playfully.
I frown at the inheritance thing, but then I remember: he told me earlier about a rich, childless uncle who left him everything when he died. “Hmm, still ... glass houses, Dr. Wardley.” As we walk up my driveway, I feel Sam close to me, his touch light on the small of my back as he guides me over the rougher gravel as if he’s scared I’ll trip and fall.
“Oh, it wasn’t a slight in any way. And in fact, your postcode means your life expectancy is a lot higher than the average cider-drinking female, so that’s good.” He tries to stay serious, but I slap him lightly on the chest, and he breaks into a laugh and throws his hands up, saying it’s factually true.
At the door, I’m tempted to ask him in, mainly because it’s been a good night and I’ve really enjoyed his company—far more than I thought I would. But then I’ve also had four pints of strong cider, and my judgment is more than a bit impaired.
“I had a really nice night, Sam. Thank you. I’m glad we did this.” I lean back against my front door and look up at him. He’s about as tall as Jake, I think, but not as muscular and so doesn’t feel as intimidating. Or as dominating. Or as warm.
“You sound surprised,” he jokes, sliding his hands into his pockets.
I try to decide if I want him to kiss me. How different from Jake’s kiss would it be? I doubt he will kiss me though, since it took him eight months to ask me ou—
Then he’s kissing me.
I stand there momentarily stunned, my hands at my sides before I bring them up to rest them on his arms. His own hands stay in his pockets, head tilted to the side, his mouth soft and careful as he kisses me on my doorstep like a teenager. His kiss is warm but cautious, and there’s no urgency to it, no possessive taking or claiming. He smells of clean linen and tastes of orange, and it’s ... a nice kiss. I’m sure if I wasn’t bulldozed by a different kind of kiss from a different kind of man a few days ago, it would have far more of an impact.
Then he isn’t kissing me anymore.
He takes a small step back and looks at me warily, checking to see if he’s overstepped a line. “Sorry,” he says. “I thought I’d do that before I overthought it too much.”
“No, I get it. It was fine,” I tell him. “I’m the queen of overthinking, trust me.”
He pouts his lips slightly. “Fine?Oh, well, I was hoping for mind-blowing, but I guess fine will do for now ...”
I laugh. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. It was ... nice.”
“Nice is better, I guess.” He nods, mouth soft.
Suddenly, I get the strangest feeling we’re being watched, and I turn to look away from him down the driveway shiftily. Small village con: nosy neighbors. Sam takes this as his cue.